


The Chalet

by Arabwel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Allison matchmakes, Background Relationships, Cabins, Chrisaac in france, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Snow, Underage - Freeform, Winter, bear skin rugs are featured, but no one poses like burt reynolds, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/pseuds/Arabwel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I should take Isaac with me. To France. For Christmas,” Chris repeats, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. </p><p>“Yes!” Allison grins. “You totally should.”</p><p>He wants to protest, but Chris is an Argent, and for what it’s worth it means Allison’s word is final. He agrees to at least ask Isaac, as unlikely as he thinks it is that the boy would be willing to spend the holiday with an old man in the middle of nowhere. In <i>France.</i></p><p>**</p><p>Isaac has never seen snow before, there are bear skin rugs and hot chocolate, and much pining</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chalet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apinkducky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apinkducky/gifts).



> Isaac in this fic in just shy of 18 but over the age of consent in France 
> 
> ***
> 
> Again, happy holidays, apinkducky! :)

“Dad, why don’t you and Isaac go instead?”

Chris blinks. “Allison—”

But his daughter is smiling excitedly, the gloom and confusion dissipating. “It would be perfect! The Delgados invited him too but he wasn’t sure if he wants to come because big groups of people he doesn’t know aren’t really his thing.” There’s a little bit of hesitation in her voice and Chris doesn’t push, doesn’t really want to think about why Isaac would not want to go with Allison to see Scott’s maternal family. “And he’s never seen snow, he told us so. So you could take him.”

“I should take Isaac with me. To France. For Christmas,” Chris repeats, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Yes!” Allison grins. “You totally should.”

He wants to protest, but Chris is an Argent, and for what it’s worth it means Allison’s word is final. He agrees to at least ask Isaac, as unlikely as he thinks it is that the boy would be willing to spend the holiday with an old man in the middle of nowhere. In _France._

Chris is in no way prepared for Isaac’s shy smile. It lights up his face in a way his usual smirks do not; it’s a rare sight and one that makes something unclench in Chris’s gut. He pushes it aside, pushes aside the reaction he doesn’t want to acknowledge with all the ruthlessness he’s perfected over the years.

“I’ve never seen snow before.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

Chris is so, so fucked.

Of course, there’s more to it—travel documentations, change of names on the flight, making sure Chris doesn’t get labeled a child abductor because Isaac is still a minor, even if it is just for a few more weeks—but Chris knows how to make travel arrangements in his sleep, the many times he’s uprooted his life blurring into one another.

Isaac, conversely, has never been outside California. He says as much, mentioning also how he hopes werewolves don’t get airsick.

Chris… has no idea.

***

There’s a part of Isaac that still waits for the other shoe to drop; that this is simply too good to be true. He knows he... doesn’t get to have good things. It’s one of the facts of life for Isaac Lahey, and this? This is grade-A harlequin romance novel bullshit.

Or it would be, if he didn’t know Chris was doing it just because Allison didn’t want to come. Because Allison is being _nice_ to him, doesn’t want him alone for Christmas, stuck in the group home, or worse—surrounded by Scott’s family as the third wheel.

Isaac sometimes wonders what if it would be like, if it was all three of them, but he cannot shake the way Allison looked at Scott and Scott only, cannot shake the knowledge that he doesn’t get good things and Scott and Allison? They are a good thing. They’re not Romeo and Juliet, they’re… something else. Something good, something pure, and Isaac knows he could never be a part of that. Not to mention he’s still not entirely over that time she _stabbed him repeatedly_ , so he’s not really hung up on her, no matter what Danielle said to him at the end of their ill-fated date.

Isaac is not hung up on _Allison_ Argent. He’s hung up on a different vintage.

He knows it’s stupid, he knows he should get over it. He knows that all the time they spent together waiting for Allison to wake up after the Oni, the way Chris compartmentalized everything but Isaac just— _couldn’t_ , it means nothing. He knows it’s fucked up, he knows that if he actually went to therapy they’d tell him it’s just because his dad is—his dad is dead, and Chris is filling some father figure void in his life. And maybe that’s part of it, but Isaac really doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to go there. He just knows that there’s a hot clench at the pit of his stomach when he sees Chris, that the wolf in him wants to rub all over the older man and...more.

In another life, maybe Chris would be whisking him away to France in first class to a chalet in the Alps because he meant it as a big romantic gesture. Because it would be, were it anything but Isaac being a last minute substitution, something that would make even Peter’s plans pale. (Isaac kinda wishes it was true just for the look of consternation on Peter’s face if he got upstaged. Isaac has seen the ring, knows what Peter is planning to do on Christmas. It’s both a big romantic gesture but also a douche move, exactly Peter’s style. Isaac thinks Melissa is probably gonna slap him and then say yes.)

***

Werewolves do not get airsick, it would seem, but Isaac is still quiet for most of the flight, sinking into his seat like the teenager he is, long legs stretched out in an indecent sprawl.

Chris doesn’t correct the stewardess who asks if he and his son would like something else. It’s better to be thought family than something else, something Chris is trying very hard not to acknowledge he is feeling. That he _wants._

But sometimes, just sometimes Isaac makes it very hard, like now when he’s stretching, baring a pale strip of skin on his stomach, the dip of his hipbones as his tight white shirt rides up. Chris told him to pack warmly, but Isaac is too confident his werewolf physiology will give him an advantage with the insouciance of youth.

Chris has a spare hat and gloves in his bag, one of his coats that’s meant to fit over tac gear that should fit Isaac despite their difference in stature. The idea of the boy wearing his clothes is far too pleasurable for his comfort.

***

“It’s so beautiful here,” Isaac says and he means it when they step out of the rental car. He’s enjoying the fresh air after two hour drive from the Lyons airport to the small village in the middle of the Alps, with a name Isaac isn’t sure he can pronounce even after years of high school French. 

He looks at Chris. “Thanks for bringing me over.”

Chris smiles, and Isaac tries very hard to squish the flutter at the pit of his stomach. If Chris can compartmentalize, so can he.

“It’s my pleasure,” Chris says, and oh Isaac tries really hard to not to turn it into an innuendo. He can’t hold back a smirk, though, and can barely keep his eyes from running over Chris’ body, as covered as it is with winter gear.

“So is this like, a family cabin?” Isaac asks as he takes it all in. There’s so much snow. It’s everywhere, hanging off the heavy branches of the evergreen trees, clustering on the roof of the chalet that looks straight out of a high class travel ad, or maybe a fairytale with all the carvings on the fancy boards below the roof Isaac doesn’t know the proper name of. It’s bigger than the house he grew up in, the porch shored up by big logs with more carvings on them.

“No. But I’ve been here before, many years ago.”

“Is that why the guy was so happy to see you when you went to get the keys?” Isaac is curious. He understood maybe one word out of five when the old guy who looked like he was maybe hundred and five years old had talked.

“Lets just say the last time I stayed here was eventful.” Chris looks a bit rueful, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Like it’s a happy memory.

Isaac shrugged. “If you say so.”

They step inside to a welcoming warmth. Apparently someone has been in here to heat up the place, fill the pantry, get everything ready. There’s even Christmas decorations, the fancy kind, wreaths with real glass baubles and candles waiting to be lit—

Isaac steps through a door and freezes. There’s a big room with a fireplace, socks already hanging off the mantle and a big, bearskin rug spread out on the floor. Stag heads hang on the walls, a gun rack with some old time musket or something and a sword, and suddenly Isaac is absolutely aware of the fact that he flew to a different country, came to a remote woods cabin with a hunter—

_’Where I keep my guns.’_

*** 

The moment Isaac stiffens, Chris’ hand flies to his belt and he curses the fact that he hasn’t had a chance to arm himself yet— _fuck_ international air travel—as he starts scanning the room for danger.

His eyes fall on the rug that wasn’t there the last time, and it clicks. It’s a room full of hunting trophies, _of course_ it would freak out a werewolf.

“Isaac, it’s all right,” he says quietly, reaching out slowly and carefully to lay a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “I am not going to hurt you.” Because that’s what Isaac is afraid of, and Chris feels a flush of shame, tries to push it away to make sure Isaac is all right.

“So did you hunt any werewolves last time you were here?” Isaac’s words are flippant but there’s a tremor in his voice under the snark.

“No.” Chris shakes his head and squeezes Isaac’s shoulder. “I did take down the bear that wandered into the village, though.”

“That bear?” Isaac asks, and Chris is about to say no, that would make no sense but a quick glance tells him yeah, actually—

“Yeah,” Chris admits. Now some of the conversation he had with the old man in the village makes sense, in retrospect, the mention of a surprise waiting. “It was coming after people.”

“And now it’s a rug.”

“I didn’t know that’s what happened,” Chris admits. “We left the next day.”

Isaac takes a step forward into the room, and Chris stays where he is as Isaac walks over and crouches down to run a hand through the fur in silence.

“You protected them.”

“Yes, I did.”

Isaac smiles, that rare, real smile again.

*** 

It’s past midnight and Isaac can’t sleep. He knows there’s hot chocolate downstairs, the kind you make with real cream and he thinks maybe that will help. He doesn’t know if it’s the jetlag or what, the bed he’s in is comfortable and warm, but he finds himself slipping on a pair of sheepskin slippers and padding down the smooth wooden stairs. 

He ends up sipping his chocolate in front of the fireplace, slippers kicked off and toes wriggling into the soft fur of the bear rug. He thinks it’s another sign that he’s fucked up but the rug feels almost reassuring. That no matter what is lurking out there in the dark, beyond the snow falling outside the windows, Chris is here to protect him.

And the thing is, Isaac likes that. Likes the idea of Chris standing between him and the world, likes the idea of being protected. He likes it maybe too much, a heat rising to his cheeks that has nothing to do with the fire, nothing to do with the drink.

Empty mug set aside, Isaac lays down on the rug and stretches out, feels the fur rubbing at the small of his back. It feels nice, it feels hot in a way that makes him think maybe there really is something about those old photos because it should be cheesy, should make him laugh and not quickly strip off his shirt and toss it aside.

He lays down and closes his eyes, wiggles a little to feel the fur rub against his back. He isn’t really thinking when he lifts a hand to run it over his fire-warmed skin, skims his fingers over his stomach but _fuck_ it feels good and Isaac realizes he’s more than half hard already, his cock tenting the fabric of his soft sleep pants.

He licks his lips, still tasting the chocolate. He knows he shouldn’t, Chris could walk in any minute, but he’s pretty sure the hunter is still asleep, that the steady heartbeat he can hear over his own elevated one is still upstairs, still asleep…

Isaac bites his lip and slips his hand down to cup himself.

***

Chris has always been a light sleeper, made even more so by his profession. He isn’t precisely sure what it is that wakes him, hand slipping under the pillow to grip a weapon out of habit.

The sound is faint but he hears it over the noise of the wind outside, the shutters clattering against the windows. It’s coming from downstairs, a muffled whimper that has the hairs at the back of his neck standing up as he silently slips out of the bed.

It only takes a moment to ascertain Isaac is not in his room. It’s probably nothing, but Chris hasn’t gotten to be where he is now by dismissing odd noises at night. Silently, he makes his way downstairs. Even though he knows it’s probably just Isaac getting a snack or something else innocuous, he cannot discount the possibility of—

Chris’s train of thought comes to a crashing halt and his jaw drops when he comes to the doorway and sees Isaac. He freezes on the spot, unable—unwilling—to move as his eyes drink in what feels like miles of bare skin turned golden by firelight.

Isaac moans and Chris knows that’s the sound that woke him up, that that’s the sound now going straight to his dick. Isaac must know he’s here now, must hear the spike of his heartbeat before he can wrestle himself under what passes for control again. Isaac is gorgeous, all lean muscle and perfect skin, golden curls a contrast against the dark fur of the rug and the hunter _wants._

Chris knows he should go. He should turn on his heel and go back upstairs, should leave Isaac alone. He knows this is wrong on so many levels, the fact that Isaac is his daughter’s age and a werewolf just the tip of the iceberg, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Isaac, can’t look away from where the boy’s hips arch off the rug as his hand moves under the fabric of his pants. 

Isaac makes another sound, another whimper and Chris’s mouth goes dry. 

“Ch-Chris,” Isaac’s voice sounds broken, like he’s begging but the sound of his name still sends a cold jolt through the hunter. Isaac must’ve heard him, must’ve smelled him and his inappropriate reaction and it’s on the tip of his tongue to apologise when Isaac speaks again.

“Please…” Isaac’s eyes are screwed shut and the realization that Isaac hasn’t noticed him, is too wrapped up in his pleasure for even his werewolf senses to take note of Chris, is heady, especially with the knowledge that Isaac is _thinking about him._

Chris takes a step forward before he can think otherwise. For all his strength of will, he is powerless before Isaac in a way he has never quite experienced before. He knows he should stop, he should turn around and go, not approach.

The hunter licks his dry lips before he speaks up. “Isaac?”

Isaac’s eyes flutter open, blue and hazy as they meet Chris’s heated gaze.

***

“Chris?” Isaac wonders if he’s having a wet dream, because there’s no way Chris is looking at him like that. Looking at him with fire and hunger in his eyes as he walks closer, slow and measured.

“I heard you say my name,” Chris says and his voice is low and rough in a way Isaac has never heard before, like molasses over sandpaper, and it goes straight into Isaac’s spine.

Several replies flit through Isaac’s mind, from _hearing is the second thing to go_ to outright denial and variety of admissions. In the end he only nods.

“Do you want me to come over?” Chris asks, and Isaac can see a hint of hesitation on the hunter’s face, a glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes.

Isaac licks his lips. “Y-Yeah.”

It feels like an eternity until Chris is next to him, kneeling down on the rug and the knowledge that Chris is the one who put it there, who put the beast with the fangs as long as Isaac’s thumb down shouldn’t be hot but it is.

Chris reaches out to cup Isaac’s cheek, to run a calloused thumb over his cheekbone in a way that shouldn’t be so hot, shouldn’t make him bite back on a whimper.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Again it feels like the moment hangs for an eternity before Chris leans forward, telegraphing his movement in a way Isaac has never seen the hunter do before, and then the chapped lips meet his, soft and tender and all Isaac can do is melt into the kiss.

***

The sunlight glints off the snow and into the bedroom windows far more brightly than Chris is used to. He groans and tries to roll away, only to be stopped by an arm around his waist and the warmth of another body.

_Isaac._

For a moment Chris panics, but the memory of the night before comes to him. Of finding Isaac touching himself, the kisses and frantic touching that followed, and what they spoke of after. Isaac’s stuttering confession of his feelings and his diabolical smirk when he pointed out what they did is perfectly legal in France.

He never expected his affections to be returned. He doesn’t know if this is a good idea at all. Hell, he knows this is a terrible idea, that they cannot let anyone know this happened, that they’d agreed to let this _keep happening_ , especially once they’re back in Beacon Hills.

Isaac stirs and raises his head, golden curls tangled around his face. “What’s for breakfast?”

“I don’t know, what do you want?”

“Waffles?”

Chris can do waffles.

**


End file.
